


Worth The Same

by Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor (orphan_account)



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Caretaking, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad is in a car accident and makes a shock-call to Adam. Adam isn't the one who picks up, but that doesn't mean Brad is alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth The Same

**Author's Note:**

> Written for for prompt "close." Given that I usually hew a little more literally to prompts, I feel like I should mention that I made "close" my theme--it's not actually addressed specifically in the fic. 
> 
>  
> 
>  _We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving._ \--Kingsley Shacklebolt, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

Brad hates hospitals.

They're always so _white_ , so clean and quiet, so unlike his little home with its blue and green and yellow walls and plants and amicable profusion of clutter, the beep of machines a constant companion instead of something soothing and quiet or fun and dancey. 

One of the nurses brought him a blue and green striped blanket from the breakroom when he finally managed to explain just how much all that white and washed-out pastel creeps him out. It helps. Kind of.

He turns his head and looks out the window at the warm cluster of Los Angeles lights. Somewhere down there, what's left of his car is probably being carefully looked over by some police inspector who's probably trying to avoid the little speckles of blood on the window. Safety glass doesn't leave huge gaping wounds, but Brad has plenty of little cuts on his arms and face. 

They sting.

A nurse comes with a little paper cup full of pills. Brad stares up at her, muzzy but not knocked out.

"I'm not taking those."

He expects her to frown or call for someone to hold his mouth open. Instead she pulls over the little bedside table thing and tips the cup out, sorting the pills out neatly: one yellow on the right, one pink on the left, two little green ones in the middle.

"Sleeping pill," she says, tapping the table near the yellow one. "Vitamins. We give them to everyone. And this one is a low-level antibiotic. The odds of getting a skin infection from open cuts in a hospital are low, but Dr. Martin wants to avoid complications."

Brad pushes the yellow pill back across the table. "I don't want it."

"I understand you've been through a lot tonight, Mr. Bell, but—"

"Look, you don't get it," Brad interrupts. He considers sweeping the pill to the floor and doesn't. "I'm already tired. I don't want to be here. I'm probably lucky my car didn't catch on fire and I really do not want something that's going to make it impossible for me to wake up when the nightmares happen, which you and I both know they will so let's not sit around pretending everything is okay."

There's a pause long enough for Brad to shuffle, then reach for the blanket. The nurse scoops the sleeping pill back into the cup and puts it on the table. It occurs to Brad that she looks very young.

"I'll leave this in case you change your mind," she says. "If you don't take the other two by ten o'clock the next shift will probably put you on a drip."

"Later."

She pours water with one hand and checks his pulse with the other. "I'd prefer you take those two before we send your partner back," she says, and Brad blinks in surprise. "Visiting hours are really ending in five minutes, but it's nurse's discretion." Brad's startled by the understanding—not pity, not contempt, not a power trip, just flat-out empathy—he sees in her eyes. "If I was in your shoes, I think I'd want the company."

"How—?" Brad doesn't have a partner—right now he almost kind of wishes he did, because he wants somebody to curl up and sleep on who can help him get his head around the fact that he's still alive—but he's also pretty sure nobody actually knows he's here, and that's what really has him puzzled.

"He said you called him from your car before they got you out," the nurse tells him. "You may not remember, but the EMTs actually told you to stay on the phone. They wanted you to stay responsive. Relax your eyes, I need a look at your pupils."

Brad lets his eyes go out of focus. On one side of his memory tonight, he was going out to pick up Chinese; then there's a heavy red curtain with a couple of disturbing, frightening flashes of something else through it, and on the other side of it is Brad in this room, a doctor who looks old enough to be his grandfather telling him he's been in a car crash, hit almost head-on by a drunk, six stitches be glad it's not more son, admitted for shock and exposure. He'll deal with the pokes and prods if it gets him out of here.

"I don't remember." He remembers a light sprinkle of rain, and thinking that winter in LA can be a pain; he remembers how cold the outside night air felt when his windshield shattered. He thinks he remembers screaming, but on that one he's not sure. 

"That's all right." She scribbles down some numbers from the monitor by his bed and gives him an expectant look, and Brad finally acquiesces and takes the vitamin. The nurse smiles at him and leaves, and after a few minutes Brad hears a quiet shuffle of feet. He looks up.

Adam's boyfriend is standing in the doorway with a canvas bag in his hand.

"May I come in?"

Brad is too shocked to speak. Instead he gives a numb nod. Sauli crosses the floor and sits next to the bed.

"I have called Adam," he says. "I made him promise that he would not call you until I have called him, so that he will not call you with the panic."

"Thanks." Brad breathes in, out, and finally his mouth decides to make words. "What are you doing here?"

"You called our house begging for Adam, and you sounded frightened and in pain and did not know that Adam has been in Europe for three weeks, even though I know that you went to lunch before he left," Sauli answers. "I promised that I would come to you."

"Yeah, but—" Brad shifts around on his pillows. The blanket falls back to his knees. " _Why_?"

"Because," Sauli says, and the tone in his voice suggests this is a question on par with _why is water wet?_ "I thought that I should not be somewhere else." He reaches down into the bag. "Also, because when I told Adam that I thought I should come to you, he asked me to bring you this." And he drapes something large and creamy-butter yellow and smelling of Adam around Brad's shoulders.

It's one of Adam's house sweaters, and Brad snuggles into the soft knit cable and scent of Adam's shampoo and aftershave before he can stop himself. He jerks his head up and sees Sauli smiling back at him. There's a kind of sad knowing in that smile, and Brad curls his fingers tighter in the fabric. 

Maybe some other time he can worry about being ashamed of the way Adam still makes him feel. Right now he needs the comfort of Adam's scent, and he buries his face in the collar of the sweater.

There's a soft click, and then Brad hears the quiet thunder of a rainstorm. He pulls his face out of the sweater and sees Adam's old portable CD player sitting on the table.

"I didn't know this was a five-star hotel," he manages, and Sauli laughs.

"I do not like the sound of hospitals either." He pulls out a book that looks like it's in Finnish, sets it on the table, rummages, finds a bright purple lap blanket and puts the book away. "I brought you this also, but someone else has brought you one already."

"That's okay." Brad drapes the blanket over the steel siderail. "I hate hospital colors." He looks over and holds out a hand. "Thank you for coming."

Sauli takes Brad's hand between both of his own. "Of course." 

Brad leans back against the pillow, snuggles into Adam's sweater again. He hears the slide of the bag along the floor, and then one of Sauli's hands pulls away. Probably getting his book, Brad thinks, and he opens his eyes.

"You don't—have to stay," he says. "I mean, I'm not telling you to leave. But you don't have to feel obligated just because I—did I seriously call you?"

"You did," Sauli confirms. "On our land telephone. You were screaming and asking for Adam and telling me that you were bleeding." He puts down his book and reaches out with a single finger to touch Brad's forehead, where a small bandage covers his stitches. "I told you that I would tell Adam, because I thought that if I told you he was not there, you would . . . " Sauli frowns. "I do not think it would have been good. Your mind could not hear that, then." He squeezes Brad's hand. "And then you told me that you did not want to die that way. The medic who took your phone told me they had to cut your car open to get you out, so I think it must have been very bad." 

Brad nods abruptly. "I don't actually remember being in there."

"I will tell you what I can if you would like."

"If I need to know, I'll ask."

"Then I will not say anything, unless you do."

"Thank you." Brad lays back and closes his eyes again, and he must doze a little, because the next thing he knows he's opening his eyes and looking up at Sauli tucking the nurse's blanket around his shoulders.

"You—" Sauli puts his hands to his shoulders and shudders. "Like you were cold." 

Brad nods and pulls the blanket up. It smells of something fruity and feminine, and he pulls Adam's sweater closer around him instead. 

"It must be late."

"It is five minutes past ten o'clock."

"I should let you get home."

"There is no need." Sauli frowns at the sweater. Then he ties the arms loosely in front of Brad's neck, sailor-style. "Adam is not there."

"You don't have to stay with me just because he knows me."

There's a long pause, and during it Brad watches Sauli stare out the window at the LA lights. 

"Does it bother you, that I should stay with you when he cannot?"

"I don't know _what_ bothers me. But you being here is weird."

"Because you were his lover?"

Brad raises his head off the pillow. There's nothing really _rude_ about the statement—if anything, it's kind of refreshing to hear somebody who's not particularly worried about being politic—but it still startles him. He lets his head flop back; his neck is sore.

"Partly." He scrunches his legs up so he can stretch them out again. "Partly also because I'm not really sure why you came, instead of calling, I don't know, Leila or Neil or somebody else we both know. You're his boyfriend. Not his servant."

"That is why I am here," Sauli answers. "If Adam were here, anywhere in California, right now, he would be on his way to stay by your side. But he cannot be here and that will bother him. So, I have come to bring you the things he would bring. I did not come only to comfort you. Knowing that I am here, it will comfort him, also."

"I'm just curious. You brought me his sweater and his blanket. He belongs to you and you're giving that up. What exactly are you getting out of this?"

"I am not keeping the scorecard. I do not need to 'get something out' of everything I do for him. That is not love. It is abuse like a drug." Sauli stretches. "There is a cafeteria that does not close until midnight and I would like tea, while I sit. Do you want something?"

Brad hasn't even considered food since the flash of his own blood on his window, but at the mention of the cafeteria his entire insides start clamouring loudly. He wraps his arms around his stomach. 

"Please," he answers. "I was going for dinner when . . . you know."

"Yes." Sauli stands up and brushes his hands absentmindedly on his jeans. "I will bring food." He leans over and kisses Brad's forehead, just above his eye, where Adam used to and still does, sometimes, when Brad is crying or sick or hurt. His lips don't feel like Adam's—there's a prickle of stubble around them, for starters—but in a way they kind of do, and when he leaves the room to converse quietly in the hall with the nurse Brad snuggles down into Adam's sweater and kicks vaguely at the blue and green blanket so he can pull the purple one over.

He doesn't think he falls asleep, but then suddenly Sauli is sitting quietly next to the bed again with a small tray and a cup of tea, and when Brad looks at the clock it says 23:49. Almost midnight.

Sauli looks up from his book. "I did not mean to wake you."

Brad just shakes his head, still in that weird fuzzy place where his mouth doesn't feel like a thing that talks yet. Sauli pushes the tray toward him.

"I did not know what you would want to eat," he says. "There is fruit and also, mm—" He frowns and gestures at a small dish of cottage cheese. Brad nods. "The cup is soup. Chickens and noodles." 

Brad nods again and sets out to nibble at the soup. It's mostly cold, but that's okay; even cold chicken noodle soup is pretty good.

He finishes the soup and makes a pretty good start on the fruit and cottage cheese before deciding he's done; there's also a second cup of tea on the tray, and a couple of sugar packets and a creamer. Brad mixes in the sugar and sips. It's sweet, good, even though it's a kind meant to be drunk hot; it tastes like being alive.

He hears Sauli humming quietly from his chair, immersed again in his book. Brad peeks at the cover. _Harry Potter Ja Kuoleman Varjelukset_ , it says, over a cartoonishly bad picture of what Brad assumes must be the three main characters. Then he spots the second book—bright orange cover, pastel lines—in Sauli's lap. This one he knows without having to be told; Adam's not a Harry Potter fan but Neil is, and Brad was Neil's ride home—Adam having refused to get out of Brad's bed—when he finally staggered out of an LA bookstore with his copy of the last book held triumphantly over his head at almost three in the morning. Brad's almost positive the copy in Sauli's lap is actually Neil's; he recognises the way the dustcover is folded.

"Homework?"

Sauli looks up. "Ahh, no," he says, and his face turns a becoming shade of pink. Brad wishes he had a camera in hand; he's sure Adam would appreciate it. "There are not many books, you know, that have good translations from English to Finnish or the other way around, and it is a little easier to learn new words this way." 

"Oh." Brad rolls onto his side to watch as Sauli traces down the English page. Eventually he stops, mouth moving silently, and returns to his Finnish copy, turning pages and examining words until finally he picks up a pencil, underlines one, and scribbles something in the margin. 

"Thanks for the food."

Sauli smiles at him. "You are welcome."

Brad rolls onto his back. "I have a question."

"Mm?"

"Why did you come here, anyway? Not 'because Adam is here.' I know that part. I mean you met him, you spent a week on vacation with him, and then boom, you came here. That's totally wild."

"Ah." Sauli puts the dustcover edge into the English book and closes the Finnish one over a piece of paper Brad can't read that has lots of exclamation points and "3,80€" on it—probably an advertisement for something. The dust of pink returns to his face. "I do not know if you will believe me."

"You'd be amazed what I can believe."

"Then, I will tell you," Sauli answers. "But do not make the joke if you do not. I will not tell you it is true, only that I believe it is."

"Okay." 

Sauli settles down in the chair. "I did not know anything about Adam before we met," he says. "I think maybe I had heard his name one time, at work—you know that I write for a newspaper, yes?—but it was like anything you hear at work that is not related to what you are doing, later you may say 'oh yes, I have heard that' but you would not think of it on your own."

Brad nods his understanding.

"I did not know what he looked like, and if someone had said his name to me and asked me to put it with a person I would not even have been able to say that he is a singer. But, when I saw him for the first time, I knew I had seen him before. Not in the way where you see someone who looks like someone else you know—I knew that he would have a brother, and that he drinks his coffee with milk but not sugar, and that thing he does, when he is sleeping, if you put your head on his chest, you know the thing I mean?"

Brad nods again. "The way he pulls you over, like he's trying to pull you into him."

"Yes, that. It is a good way to say it. I knew that he would do that, and—do not laugh—I knew it because it had happened before. I already knew what his body would feel like, and that he would like to dance but cannot do turns. And that moment, when I saw him, I knew that I knew those things even though I also knew I had never seen him before." He frowns. "It is hard to explain in English."

"Deja vu?"

"No. I have felt that before, and this was not that. This was . . . like looking at a photograph that is many many years old, and the things in it, how you can almost remember them but not quite, because there are small pieces missing." He makes a face, frowning and biting his lip. "I did not think of it this way, at that moment. But, I think that in some other time, and some other place, we were lovers before."

Brad pulls himself up on his elbows. "You're talking about past lives."

" . . . ye-es," Sauli answers, but slowly. "I do not know if it was a _life_. But a—a _being_ , outside of who we are now. I felt it very strongly then and sometimes, now, I still do. Things he will do, or say, that seem very familiar even though they are new. I talked to Niko about it and he said that maybe for some people and their dreams, one life is not enough for everything you want to share. I do not know. I cannot say I remember things that happened when we were not the people we are now, the way some people who say they have lived before will do. But that feeling, it was very strong when we were together in Paris, and I felt like to leave would be to make myself ask every day for the rest of my life, 'what would have happened if you had not been afraid?' I do not regret it now."

"What does Adam think?"

"When I told him he laughed, and kissed me, and said that I had had enough wine for one night, to be talking like that." Sauli tilts his head to one side and ponders. "I think that maybe he feels the same, but is afraid of it, or thinks that it does not matter. It is a very big thing to feel—like there, maybe there is a hole in the middle of the world, that you can only see sometimes, if it is very late or you look the right way." He smiles, and behind that simple sunny look Brad suddenly gets a glimpse into a smaller version of what he thinks Sauli is talking about—never in a million years would Brad have suspected something approaching higher-level philosophy to come in plain but strong English out of that mouth, belonging to this man. "I do not mind him saying that, as long as we can still love." He reaches out and squeezes Brad's hand. "But you should sleep. Tomorrow they will have many questions and you will have things to do. You should rest."

Brad nods and curls up in the sweater again—warm and colour against the bleak hospital walls, the sweet and musky smell of Adam to hide stale air and antiseptic. "Will you read to me?"

Sauli makes some kind of noise Brad takes for affirmative and thumps the huge pastel hardback down on the table. "I can go back to the beginning."

"No," Brad says. "Actually—the one that's not in English is better."

Sauli blinks at him. "You understand Finnish?"

"No, and that's the whole point," Brad tells him. "If I can't understand it, it won't keep me awake."

"Ah!" Sauli sets the orange book aside and picks up his little Finnish paperback. "Then I will start from the beginning of the chapter, until you are sleeping."

"Thank you." 

Sauli answers in what Brad is pretty sure is Finnish, already pulling out of English thought as he opens his book. Brad closes his eyes and sinks into the sweater, pulls up the blanket and curls up in a ball. At some point he thinks he feels a hand in his hair as words wash over him, the occasional name popping out of the jumble of singsong Finnish syllables, and eventually he hears a quiet sound when Sauli puts the book down and starts singing a rambling little song that sounds to Brad like it's probably a nursery rhyme, and then a wonderful thing happens: he really, actually falls asleep.

\---------------------

He's warm, when he wakes up—muzzy Saturday morning lover in bed warm—and he smiles and pulls the arm around his waist closer before he remembers where he is and that Adam is somewhere in Europe, and the musky-sweet scent around him is nothing but clothes. 

He pushes the sweater away and sits up, looks to his left and sees Sauli looking up at him. "You are awake."

"You're in my hospital bed." Brad bites on his tongue before he can start yelling. Sauli sits up and swings his legs down.

"Yes," he agrees. "In the night you started to cry, in your sleep, very bad crying. So I laid down with you, so that you would know you were not alone."

Brad kind of remembers having a nightmare that would fit the bill for "very bad crying," and the urge to yell dissipates a little. Sauli hops off the bed and goes digging in the canvas bag still sitting on the floor next to the visitor's chair. Finally he straightens up with a cell phone in his hand. 

"I can ask the nurse when you can eat," he says. "And also I should call Adam." 

Brad nods and swings his own legs off the bed so he can go pee. He's not entirely steady, and Sauli reaches out for his elbow to help him down. 

"Thanks."

"You are welcome." Sauli straightens Brad's hospital gown. "I will call Adam and talk to the nurse while you are in the bathroom," he suggests, and Brad nods his agreement.

He's just washing his hands and feeling glad his sideburns right now make shaving optional instead of mandatory when there's a rattle in his room, and he peeks his head out the door to see an extremely cute-looking man in scrubs taking a little tray off a cart. Brad shuffles back into the room and plunks down in the visitor's chair.

"Hi?"

The guy turns around and smiles before reaching for Brad's wrist. Brad spots his ID badge—Eddie Ramirez, LPN—and smiles back. He's probably straight, but hey, looking's free. 

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"I just woke up." He rolls his shoulders. "Okay, I guess."

"Any stiffness?" Eddie Ramirez the extremely cute LPN touches the side of Brad's neck, and Brad bites on his tongue. Adam—and, he thinks, probably Sauli—would laugh like hell at _yeah, plenty, oh wait, you meant muscle stiffness, didn't you_ , but this guy is just trying to do his job. Brad rolls his head experimentally instead. 

"Not really. I mean, it's sore, but I can move it."

"Your chart said whiplash," the nurse tells him. "I can get you a scrip for that. Let me get your BP."

Brad sits obediently while he gets tied up in a blood pressure cuff. At some point before all the air goes out of it Sauli comes back in, and he immediately makes an amused face in Brad's direction. Brad sticks his tongue out, and the nurse turns around to see what's behind him. Brad grins—even through a baggy set of scrubs, it's a nice view.

"Good morning," Eddie the nurse says, and Sauli returns the greeting. "Are you his partner?"

"A friend," Sauli answers, and crosses the room with a huge tea from the Starbucks in the gift shop in one hand. "Here, it does not have caffeine. Adam said you like it." 

Brad accepts the cup. There's a moment when Sauli kind of fumbles it, and as he does he leans forward and murmurs sharply in Brad's ear. "Stop making the cow eyes. You are more obvious than a child."

Brad pouts, but accepts the tea being offered and sips it. The nurse hands him the little paper cup, and Brad stares suspiciously into it again.

"There's still four pills here."

He gets a chuckle in response. "You must be the Bradley Karen told me about. The new one's a painkiller."

Brad continues staring into the cup for a moment before dumping the pills into his mouth and washing them down with his tea. Then the nurse is gone, leaving behind a breakfast of pancakes and fruit and—seriously?—bacon, and there's just Brad pouting up at Sauli, who looks distinctly unimpressed. 

"Do not make the faces at me because you cannot control yourself," Sauli scolds. "If he does not know right this moment that you wanted to throw him over the bed railing and do many horrible things to him, he is blind."

Brad can't help himself—he snickers. Sauli rolls his eyes and plunks down cross-legged on the floor.

"You should have food," he says, and then nods at Brad's bare legs. "I brought clothes you can wear, I think. We are almost the same size. If the doctor says you are able to be on your own, you will be able to leave."

Brad doesn't even bother climbing back onto the bed—he stands up and eats from there, leaning against the bedrail while Sauli picks up the bits and pieces scattered over the table. At last he shoves the last piece of apple into his mouth and swallows, and then the nurse comes back in—same nurse, same smile—and Brad sticks his tongue out. 

"Told you," he tells Sauli, and Eddie the LPN laughs.

"Do you have transportation?" he asks, and Brad's about to say _I can get a taxi back to my car_ when it really hits him what happened, that somewhere in a police garage sits his little Honda with the windshield blown in and part of the engine sitting in the passenger seat and strips of his jeans hanging from the ragged remains of the dash below the deflated airbag, and he feels himself getting ready to cry or possibly scream when suddenly his face is buried in Sauli's neck and he can hear a heavily-accented voice saying _I have a car._ There's a shuffle of papers and soft tennis-shoe footsteps, and then Sauli is coaxing him back against the bed railing to lean.

"I will drive," he says, and brushes Brad's hair out of his face. "I tested for an international license eight months ago. Adam and Neil taught me to drive in Los Angeles."

Brad nods numbly and stares down at the papers that replaced his breakfast tray. Sauli puts a hand in the middle of his back.

"This is for you to sign, that you are leaving the hospital and that getting their prescriptions is your responsibility," Sauli tells him, tapping a paper. Then he flips the page. "And this one . . . " He frowns, and his eyebrows knit together. "Insurance?"

"Billing?"

"Yes." Sauli shakes his head and mutters something in Finnish. "The next one is for privacy and the final one is a prescription."

Brad nods again. Then he goes hunting for a pen, which turns up tucked between layers of paper. Sauli leaves him to his forms and gets into his canvas bag.

"When you are ready, I have clothes for you," he declares, and shows Brad a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved green tee. "I do not think they are what you usually wear, but they will be warm."

Brad nods again and reaches for the little pile of clothing before shuffling into the bathroom again. He considers for a moment, then leaves the door cracked; he thinks he'll be okay, but he's not sure, and after the night he had if he can't trust Sauli to help him with his clothes then he can't trust anybody.

The jeans need cuffed only once and the shirt sleeves stay above his hands with only a little shoving, and when he comes out of the bathroom Sauli is on the phone.

"Ah, he is dressed," Sauli declares. "Yes, I—I will ask him. No. Adam—Adam—" Sauli makes _yap-yap-yap_ gestures at Brad with his free hand, and Brad can't help a grin. " _Adam_. I will ask him if you will be quiet for half the minute." He tips the phone away from his face. "He is still worried."

Brad reaches out a hand to take the phone. "Hi, sugar."

Adam immediately starts babbling into Brad's ear. Brad smiles and shakes his head. 

"I'm still kind of shook up. But I'll be okay. I'm a little pissed off you brought Sauli home and didn't find me a twin to go with him," he pouts. "You're keeping all the good ones for yourself."

Adam laughs a distracted laugh. "You should stay with him today. Don't brood. You have insurance—"

Brad clicks his tongue into the phone. Sauli stares at him in surprise as the tidal flow of Adam's rambling cuts off as though with a knife. "I know, sugar. And I promise I will let him schlep me around until lunch, anyway, if he's okay doing it, and I won't go home and cry into my beer. There wasn't anything in there I can't replace."

"Good," Adam says, and "are you _sure_ you're okay? Because I can—"

"You can get back to being a rock star and doing whatever it is you do in the middle of the night when your boyfriend isn't around to fuck, which should really be 'sleeping,' just so you know," Brad interrupts. "Go to bed."

"I love you."

"I love you too, now _sleep_ ," Brad answers. He holds the phone out, and Sauli takes it for a few more moments of conversation before he and Adam exchange their own I-love-yous and hang up. He looks up expectantly at Brad.

"You are ready to leave?"

Brad nods abruptly. "Adam's probably going to flip if I don't let you babysit me for a couple of hours, but you don't have to—"

Sauli puts a single finger on his lips. "I will not smother," he says. "But I will go with you, unless there is someone else you would rather to go with."

Brad considers. Then he shakes his head. "I just want to go home and curl up on the sofa and make my stupid phone calls," he answers. "Maybe call out for Thai for lunch. I'm not really thinking that far right now." He doesn't object to the pain pill he swallowed—he's put plenty of harder stuff in his body—but he's not too fond of the way it's fuzzing out the edges of his world, putting them in soft focus like a photograph.

Sauli doesn't chat while he leads Brad out to the desk with his discharge papers and then out to the parking garage, where Adam's old black Mustang is parked neatly on the second level. Brad raises an eyebrow. Sauli shrugs. 

"I do not like the other so much," he says. "In Finland I am used to a smaller car."

Brad nods and climbs into the passenger seat, and Sauli reaches over to buckle him in before opening the glove compartment and pulling out a Tomtom. 

"Hello," the little machine says. "I see we're taking a trip."

"I need my saved addresses," Sauli answers it, and Brad watches something like a little phone book pop up. Sauli scrolls, pauses.

"Do you need to stop, on your way home?"

Brad shakes his head. Sauli taps an entry, and the Tomtom recites Brad's address aloud for confirmation.

"Then, we will just go right there," Sauli comments, and fixes the Tomtom to a little dashboard mount that wasn't here when this was primarily Adam's car. He reaches over and squeezes Brad's hand. 

"How do you feel?"

Sauli's hand is pleasantly warm—not sweaty or ovenish, but not cold—and Brad squeezes back.

"Better, actually."

Sauli smiles at him as they pull up to the toll window. "Good. And, you are alive, and have only a few cuts and bruises." He pauses. "I asked about the other driver. They told me that they could not tell me his exact status because of the law but that he is in stable condition and they think he will be released into police custody in a day or so. There was nobody else in his car and so there is nobody who was badly hurt."

Brad lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I'm glad."

"I will stay with you while you make your calls," Sauli tells him. "I must work tomorrow, but you will be okay then, yes?"

"Yeah. And if I'm going nuts at my place I can always call Jane or Lee." Brad stretches. "Thank you."

"I wish I had met you under better circumstances, but it is my pleasure to have done it."

"I'm glad I got spoiled by Adam without having to deal with him," Brad comments. "I love him, but if I'm in the hospital bed being pissy about my meds, you shouldn't be the one who needs the sedative."

Sauli laughs. "It is true, what you say!"

Brad smiles in spite of himself, then catches Sauli's eye as he makes a turn and his smile turns into a grin. Sauli smiles back.

It's good to have the company.


End file.
